


Bear Skinned

by PyromanticWrites



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, POV Solas (Dragon Age), Slow Burn, or its why i love him, solas is a tricky dick but that's why we love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23387533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyromanticWrites/pseuds/PyromanticWrites
Summary: Solas' initial impression of the new Herald Lavellan is not very favorable. But he's not the only one in Haven who is keeping secrets.Collection of Solavellan one-shots.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas
Comments: 14
Kudos: 62





	1. Fight

The Herald, he fears, is an unsalvageable fool.

He has spent little time with the blossoming Inquisition, and even less with her directly, but none of it has graced him with a very high opinion of the woman. From the moment she stumbled from the Breach, she has allowed herself to be battered about between the Inquisition’s hands, doing as they ask and going where they command and considering nothing for herself. She writes letters by dictation, often to Master Tethras, and Josephine reports that she hardly knows how to read. Her penmanship is deplorable.

He tells her his name is Solas, and she swallows down the lie with less suspicion than Leliana, or even Cullen. It is a boon for him, of course: she trusts him so quickly, so readily, there is hardly a need for deception or sly cunning to maneuver into her inner circle. She practically leaves the door open.

But the problem is this: if she listens so readily to him, she will listen to just about anyone. To Cullen’s prejudice, to Leliana’s paranoia, to Vivienne and her blind hunger for power. Anyone.

She is a puppet. A puppet, pulled about on a string, and she holds the power of a world in her hand.

Use it, he thinks to himself, as he watches her from the overhang behind his Inquisition-assigned cottage, overlooking the snow-burdened fields outside Haven. She stumbles, as she always stumbles, a basket of gathered herbs under one arm, as the other hand digs for more beneath the snow. Gathering spices for dinner. Because of course, there are fewer important matters than gathering spices for dinner.

He watches her, and a tooth of guilt gnaws at him. _You may storm and criticize,_ he thinks to himself, _but remember, all this is born from your hands. She is the mere consequence of your actions._ He closes his eyes against the thought, even knowing it to be true. If she misuses his power, it is only because he was so reckless in giving it away.

She crouches down in the snowy field, the Anchor glinting off the snow as she clears it from a patch of elfroot. She is a hunter, a bow-woman. No mage, not even a spark of the People’s magic. Likely no reasonable education to speak of. He bites back a sigh, seeing her scrabble about in the snow and dirt

There are worse things, he supposes. She could be just as foolish and twice as headstrong, spurning all council. She could be a tyrant, using his power to chase her own. She could’ve locked him out of her inner circle, and any potential influence. She could’ve done as many Dalish do, dismissing him as a flat-ear heretic. Driving him from camp.

He should be thrilled by this, really. If she is a puppet, then victory is simply a matter of holding her strings.

There is a tactician in him, a general’s mind that spins with possibilities and strategies. He considers a potential kinship he can lean into, as two lone elves in a human world. He has asked nothing of her, unlike most at Haven. He has not been hostile, unlike the Seeker, has not ordered her about, unlike the Commander or the Spymaster. She has proven easy to influence, and he has many avenues he could use to be influential. Elven lore. Magic. Knowledge of the Veil.

But -

But there is a part of him, an older memory of a much younger man, who seethes at the sight of her, at her complete docility. It wants to shake her, to take her by the shoulders, to shout: _You are Elvhen! One of the People! Do not accept. Do not resign. You hold the power of the Fade in your hand. Seize it! Fight!_

_Think of what you could be, if you took pride in who you are._

But, there is the crux of the matter. She is not Elvhen. She is not one of the People. She is not even a mage.

In the clearing, she wraps her calloused hands about the stems of an elfroot patch, pulling up crisp green stalks, shaking dirt from the yellow roots before dropping them in the basket. The patch is sparse, and most of the suitable stock is gone. All that remains are wilted, pest-eaten leaves, dull grey from too many days beneath the snow.

She touches one, gently. Smooths it's rumpled leaves between her fingers. And as she does, fresh color creeps back in inches. The eaten patches march closed, and seal. The bent stalk straightens its spine. When it is restored, she plucks it from the ground, and adds it to the basket.

It takes him a moment - far too long - to even register what he sees.

Magic.

That -

No. No, the Herald is not a mage. She isn’t.

The Inquisition’s dossier says as much, and even if it was faked (Why would it be faked?) there are too many small facts that support it. He has examined her possessions. They are the possessions of a hunter, not a mage. She has spoken very little on magic, always bowing to him or Cullen or Cassandra. Even her physique - she has the callouses that can only be won by pulling a bowstring, the biceps and shoulders built by a bow’s draw weight. He has seen her in battle: there is no falsehood to her aim, to her skill.

She is not a mage.

He just saw her cast magic.

She moves again. Bracing the basket beneath her shoulder, she pushes to her height - which is small in person, and even smaller several hundred feet away. She stops. Pauses. Too distantly for him to see why.

She raises a hand in greeting. In his direction.

He cannot find her eyes from this distance, but a pins-and-needles sensation sweeps over him, almost electric. He feels, uncomfortably, like a predator spotted in the underbrush, too far from his prey to pounce. It is a breath-catching moment of acknowledgment, of recognition. He sees her - and she sees him.

She moves away, turning to search elsewhere, and the moment breaks like glass. When her back is safely to him, he slips off the roof’s slope, and closes himself behind the cottage door.

* * *

That night, hours later, there is a knock on that same door.

It rouses him from a light sleep, to his small one-room cottage, gilded by a crackling fire. He throws his magic out like a net, and is hit with a shock of his same energy, biting green and unstable. The Anchor. The Herald.

Delightful.

He rises from bed - clothed, of course, it was just a nap - and takes a breath, a moment, to remember his face of the mild-mannered apostate, the hermit with no secrets, who simply wants to help.

He opens the door.

She stands there with her typical moonstruck expression, two bowls of stew in her hands. She raises one to him. “Dinner,” she says, simply.

“Ah.” He digs out a small, grateful smile, and pastes it on for her, taking the bowl. “Excellent. My thanks.”

He takes the one bowl, and does not miss that there are two. She expects to be invited in, and he does not miss that either.

Fortunately, Solas the simple forest hermit may be excused if he fails to pick up on social niceties. He could be forgiven for being oblivious to such things. He would take the bowl, and thank her, and let her be on her way.

She does not move from the stoop.

“It’s got elfroot,” she continues, eyes wide and guileless. “I foraged some myself. Just today.”

She means to fight, then.

“In this climate?” He keeps his voice mild. “It must’ve taken a work of magic to dig some up.” Parry, riposte.

Her mouth pulls up at one edge. “I have my secrets.” Parry. Very good.

“You’ll have to share them with me, one day.” A simple defense, but he begins to close the door.

“Maybe right now?” She says, lifting her bowl up, leaving him no option but to baldly refuse.

Lunge. Touch and hit. Point goes to her.

He smiles at the floor, and is surprised to find it is genuine. “Ah,” he says, “perhaps not tonight. I’m afraid you interrupted some study of mine.”

“Right.” She steps back, taking the leave. “Sorry. Another time.”

“Another time, yes.” He closes the door, then. After a moment, he hears the crunch of her boots in the snow, feels the fading of the Anchor.

That’s match.

A charged breath seeps out of him. She knows, then. She knows that he knows. And after that, she likely knows that he is reluctant to acknowledge any of it. To acknowledge there is any strangeness about them at all.

This is dangerous. Very dangerous.

But in him, that old memory of a younger man is grinning. Ecstatic.

 _She fights_ , it tells him. _She fights!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charisma is my Lavellan's dump stat.
> 
> But she put all her ranks into Bluff.
> 
> If you've got this far, thank you for reading.


	2. Questions

He goes to rest that night hoping she will simply forget the whole encounter. Like most of his hopes, they are immediately, violently dashed.

The visit is the start of an unfortunate routine. Every night, at the fall of night, she knocks on his door, bearing food. Always two plates. Always with that blankly innocent expression.

Always, he takes the food and refuses the company.

It’s irrelevant, really, but it ignites a burning curiosity in him, and questions bubble up at inconvenient times. _Are you a mage?_ He wants to ask. _Do you have true magic? Did you always have true magic? Is it a recent development? An effect of the Anchor? Are you trained? Would you like to be trained?_

Every night, she appears, and baits him with the promise of answers. Like a demon coming to tempt him from the Fade - except he can be reasonably certain what a demon wants from him. And no demon has dared to try it in ages.

It feels like a trick, a deliberate trap, set vibrantly before him. Worse, it is one he cannot afford to fall to. He has spent great effort drawing lines around himself, to keep the others, and their questions, safely away. To approach her, he must cross the lines he struck himself.

But he could not sate his curiosity while starving her own. To ask his questions would invite hers. And there are many questions she could ask that would yield uncomfortable answers - particularly if she sought them out on her own. It is a risk he cannot take. That he will not allow himself to take.

He makes it a week.

“Why?” He asks her, precisely seven days after her routine began. She stares at him with wide eyes, then shrugs a little blithely.

“You’re skinny,” she says. “Wanna make sure you’re eating enough.”

It is not at all what he asked, and he knows it. He suspects she does as well.

“Wanna talk somewhere warmer?” She asks, motioning with her two bowls of venison stew.

He looks at them, as if trying to assess if they’re poisoned. _Dangerous_ , a voice whispers. But - but -

It’s important to be close to her, of course. Information is vital, key. He must have as much as he can on her. To influence her properly. To ensure the Anchor will not be misused. To learn the rhythms of her people and her world. If she is a mage, he really ought to know. It may even present an exploitable inroad to her trust.

It’s a very fine justification, yes. It’ll do.

He steps aside, and lets her in.

He peers as she passes, looking for any hint of vicious triumph on her face. In Elvhenan, it would be there. Any Elvhen courtier would’ve found at least some thrill it. The Dread Wolf himself, so simply captured.

But her expression is bland as ever as she steps in. She places one bowl on his desk, between the stacks of books and research, considers, and then settles a respectful distance away, by the fireplace.

No questions. She sits cross-legged on the packed dirt floor, and starts to eat.

“You are a mage?” He asks, sitting at the desk. No sense in delicacy. She knows what is on his mind. Her lack of reaction to the question shows as much - although, she’s had little reaction to anything put before her. 

Still, he searches her face again for that flash of courtier glee. There is none to be found.

“Not a mage.” She spears a hunk of venison, popping it in her mouth. “Got magic, but no training. No real training.” She looks up at him. “You did see it, right? That trick with the elfroot?”

He nods.

“Can’t do much more than that,” she says, returning to eating. Her next words are around a mouthful of food. “I can perk up plants, make little breezes. Sparks. Lightning sometimes, when it’s serious. That’s all.”

He cups his chin in his hand as he listens. It is a small list. The sort of parlor tricks that Elvhen children would learn, when they were young and ran a fair risk of burning down the schoolroom. “Why? Why have you not trained it further?”

She shrugs. “Clan had plenty of mages. Not enough hunters. Too many mages, you get an abomination. Not enough hunters…” she points at the bowl. “This is good meat. Good stew.”

He glances at his own untouched plate. “They never trained you, then?”

She scrapes her bowl, thinking. “Dalish rules are, if you get too many mages, you kick one out. But my Keeper didn’t like that. She gave me a bow, instead of a staff. Said mages are only mages if they’re trained. So, I just _had magic_.”

“But weren’t a mage.”

“No.” More scraping. “Got trained against possession, but that’s all. Guess they hoped demons would pass me up if I didn’t know as much.”

She continues eating. Her spoon clinks and scrapes as she reaches the bottom of the bowl. He watches his own, steam curling off into the air.

“You have magic,” he says slowly, “a gift. And they allowed it to be wasted.” He pins her with a look. “Out of fear.”

Her shoulders slump with a sigh. “We needed hunters.”

“You cannot think of any magical application to hunting?”

“There weren’t enough resources to train me - “

“Were there enough for you to train yourself?”

“I - “ Her complacent calm is cracking. She shakes her head and shrugs at him, helplessly. “We had mages. We needed hunters. We _didn’t_ need any abominations - I became what I had to be, alright?”

The answer cuts at him unexpectedly. He cannot look it in the eye, turning to the fire, instead.

This is ridiculous. If inviting her conversation is risky, turning it into an argument is the height of foolishness - and his foolishness extends quite high. She returns to her food, letting the argument wither. _Soothe her,_ he thinks. _Coax her back. If there is a benefit to be found here, it is the potential for further trust._ He cannot squander that.

“So you are a mage,” he continues, musingly, “and kept this from the Inquisition, due to the human fear of magic.”

She nods in confirmation. “A Dalish is bad,” she says. “A Dalish apostate... “

“They would not execute you.”

“But they’d trust me even less.”

He cannot argue with that.

“It is not a bad lie,” he admits. “And if you are discovered, you could blame it on the Anchor. An unforeseen side-effect. No one could dispute it.”

“No one but you.” Her look, then, spears through him.

Ah.

He sees it now, her predicament, laid out before him like a map to a maze. Of course. Of course she would lie about this to the Inquisition. Of course she would give the truth of it to him. Of course she would single him out, wear him down. If her secret comes out, and her cover is challenged, his is the only voice that could give any credit to it - or argue against.

It is not hard for him to step back and admire it, to see the whole of it.

To see her.

No painted Chantry puppet, this Herald. Subtler than that. Smarter. Clever. Clever enough to lean in to the image of the Dalish savage. Clever enough to fool him with it.

He feels a flash of embarrassment - but it is lost in a curl of delighted approval.

 _Fight!_ the old memory whispers.

“I will not,” he says, softly. “Dispute it, that is to say.”

She keeps her eyes on him, but sticks the spoon in her mouth and sucks it clean. Then tips the bowl back, and drains the dregs of stew in it. A small remainder sticks to her nose, and she wipes it away with her thumb, sucking the rest off of that, too.

“It’s good stew,” she says, sticking a hand out to his bowl. “If you’re just gonna waste it, pass it over.”

He glances at his bowl. Plucks up his fork, spears a strip of meat. And pops it in his mouth.

Her hand drops as she leans back, and there it is - that triumphant glee he was looking for. She doesn’t even bother to hide it.

He turns back to his bowl, and begins to eat.

It _is_ good stew. Good enough that, when she approaches him again, several nights later, he does not assess it so thoroughly, does not hesitate so long before letting her in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas: Ah, I used to be such a cocky, hot-blooded young man. Fortunately those days are behind us now :)
> 
> Also Solas: *Picks fights with literally half the party*
> 
> Also Solas: *Picks fights with random minor NPCs*
> 
> Also Solas: *Picks a fight with a quest-giver in the middle of Bull's personal quest, when Bull, who is twice his height, four times his weight, and has repeatedly asked him to stop is RIGHT THERE*
> 
> Yep, those days sure are behind you, buddy.
> 
> I know character backstory can be kind of boring to read, and this was more exposition-y than I would like. But I hope it was semi-interesting. Anyway, more to come.


	3. Trust

The Frostback night is still and clear when he hears the song go up.

He is in the small tent they left her in, after finding her half-dead in the snow after the attack on Haven. His line about seeing to her injuries was a falsehood, although not as false as it may have been some weeks ago. In reality, he wanted to check on the Anchor. Ensure that it is still there, still stable, that the Magister had not managed to remove it.

It is stable - more stable than before, even. It seems that the more the Magister attempted to pull it from her, the tighter in it dug. Stubborn and contradictory.

He suppresses a chuckle at the discovery. It _is_ his magic.

The Chantry clerics clear her out, saying the advisors need to convene with her, need to decide where they will clothe and feed and shelter Haven’s hundreds of refugees. He remains in her tent, among the simple possessions they managed to salvage: a pair of worn boots, Halla leather. A simple, sturdy bow. A bear skin pelt. The trappings of a hardened survivalist.

It makes him wonder how he ever doubted her survival. She may be fallible, the Magister may have ambushed and besieged and defeated her, but surely the worst way to kill a Dalish is to dump them in the wilderness. They have their talents.

Her survival nonetheless strikes others as more miraculous than him. The slowly rising song, hymn-like, is proof enough of that. It drifts in through the tent walls, and he dismisses it at first as a defeated people attempting to rally. And he is not wrong. Throwing the tent open, he sees that they do rally - around _her_.

They sing, arranged loosely in a huddled circle, with her at the center. Raised up, not to the level of any crown or king, but beyond that. Holiness. Divinity.

The tableau is strikingly familiar.

Not in the details, of course. His was different, far different. There was sunlight and gold, greenery, a crowd of Elvhenan’s finest soldiers and nobility, not battered refugees, but -

He watches as they place the mantle of divinity on her shoulders, and his own ache in sympathetic pain. He knows that weight.

They both do, now.

 _Set aside that sympathy,_ he tells himself, _there is yet more work to be done._

He waits, then, until they are settled, and the fervor has died. That is when he approaches her, leaning in, and his voice is hushed as he asks: “A word?”

* * *

He leads her beyond the camp’s edge, past the ring of firelight. It is a short walk, but a walk. He watches her again, assessing the best path forward. What he means to do now will be delicate work.

He is getting more adept at reading her, he thinks. There is the perpetual bewilderment she wears, partially as a ruse, but what he sees now is beyond that. She keeps her eyes on the snow, instead of her surroundings. Her skin is paled, her Vallaslin standing starkly against her pallor. She is shaken. By more than the Magister’s attack, he’d wager.

 _Do you know?_ He wants to ask. _Do you comprehend what they have just done to you? You will never be able to walk as an equal among them again. They will always see you as more, as apart. Do you understand how lonely it is, that pedestal they place you on?_

He looks at her in the moonlight, and again, there is that phantom ache of sympathy.

He closes his eyes a moment and collects himself. No distractions here. The orb must be retrieved. How may he accomplish that? Impress upon her the need for it, without revealing himself?

She is Dalish, elven - he can use that, yes. Tell her the orb’s origin. Tell her the consequences if humanity should discover it. She has a softness for her own and he can exploit that. Drive the wedge between humanity and her people - their people, for now. Yes, establish a sense of kinship between them. A false one, to be certain, but it will gain him the slightest bit of trust. He is elven as well, to her. The word _lethallan_ is bitter in his mouth, but he will use it if it wins him the orb.

There is no world where he may allow himself to fail. No price that is too high to pay.

When he is finished, she looks up at him.

And he sees the suspicion glinting in her eyes.

There is a moment. The same moment as the one in Haven. A moment when she looks at him and he is _seen_. Where she looks at him, and through him, and leaves him feeling bare.

His trick is not landing here. Was he too forward? Potentially, but that is not relevant now. He keeps his face masked, a last ditch effort to push it through, but his tactician mind is already spinning up other lies he could tell. Would she believe the orb would spell destruction in another’s hands? Certainly, but why trust him with it, that’s what he needs -

“I’ll get it back for you,” she says softly.

He blinks, once.

She lingers on him a moment, then turns back to the veilfire, like there’s nothing more to be said. Like she didn’t see the obvious lie, and accepted it anyway. Like -

Like she just trusts him. Trust that he means well.

Oh.

There are, in the span of scant seconds, three revelations that occur to him, all in sequence.

The first is, she is scared. A Darkspawn Magister, a monster of legends, has brought an army to her door and war upon her people. With an express intent to take her life.

The second, she is desperate. Those people look to her now as a Maker-sent savior, but she has no shelter to keep them, no salvation to give.

The third is that she…

She trusts him. It is the victory he has been striving for since she awoke in Haven.

It does not feel like any victory at all.

She moves to turn away, but no, no, he cannot let them end on this, and there is still more to tell, more to offer -

“Herald,” he says, and tells her of Skyhold.

She listens patiently. There is no suspicion in her eyes now, he notices, but when he is finished, there is still an uncertain twist to her mouth.

“Why?” Her brow furrows together, looking him over. “Why are you telling me this now? Why not earlier?”

Because...

Because Skyhold was too unknown, could raise too many questions, but she and her inquisition are a tool, and he needs them in good shape, needs them capable of retrieving the orb.

Because he has just pushed her a little too far, revealed a little too much, and if he would like to win her back, this is the way to do it. A Dalish understands the value of protection and shelter, the basic necessities of life.

Because -

_Because I am sorry._

He has to will himself not flinch at that thought. No, no, it is a manipulation. A last gift, given at the most crucial time, to win her gratitude. He does it because he must. Only because he must. There is no price too high, nothing he would not sacrifice.

Certainly not her. Certainly not her trust.

She looks at him for a long minute, like she might force that moment again, where they see each other and seem to know, precisely, what the other is thinking.

There is none. Her face strikes him as an unreadable mask. He knows his own must look the same.

“Right, then,” she says. “To Skyhold.”

He releases a breath he did not realize he had taken.

To Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I feel like Solas does a pretty decent job of acting consistently within his forest-hermit persona for most of the game - sure, there are points where he seems to know a little too much or makes some odd comments, but I mostly only noticed those things in hindsight.
> 
> That being said, he really shows his hand during the veilfire scene. All game long he's all "I don't really identify with the Dalish or city elves. I don't really have a people. I just do my own thing." But ooooooh, when the orb is line, suddenly it's all "Our people" this and "Lethallin" that. I see you, boy. You and your sexy tricks won't work on me. All of the time, at least.
> 
> I've got the shape of chapter four down already, but it's giving me some trouble. Luckily, chapter five is finished and ready to go, so if all else fails, I can just skip to that, but I'd like to give chapter four a few more days to see if it comes together. Update should be within a week.


	4. Fold

“No. No way am I doing this again.” Blackwall slaps his pair of cards to the table, throwing his hands up in blithe defeat. “I fold.”

Solas allows himself a wry smirk at the man. One down, then. He checks his attention back to his two remaining prey, ringed around their small table of Diamondback: All that remains is Varric, shaking his head as Blackwall bows out, and Lavellan.

“Come on, Hero,” Varric says. The dwarf, Solas has realized, is a fairweather player. He bets well when his hand is good, and otherwise puts down only enough to stay in the game. Currently, he is putting down only enough to stay in the game. “If you’re gonna be chicken in every game with Solas, he’s already got you beat before we even sit down.”

“I have trauma. Scars. War stories.” Blackwall crosses his arms, leaning back from the table. “Don’t send me back to the front.” He’s not the least surprised by Blackwall’s exit: The man is a cautious player, highly defensive. Unless he draws a near-invincible hand, he almost always folds.

“Okay, fine.” Varric turns in his seat, leaning one arm on the table to look Solas full on. He deepens and roughens up his voice in what Solas recognizes as the same one he uses for villains, whenever he narrates his novels. “So, what have you got, Chuckles? You’re playing aggressive, so you’ve got a good hand. But you’re too smart to play aggressive on a good hand, right? Which means you’ve got a bad one. Unless you’re too smart for _that_ , too.” The dwarf’s eyes narrow to slits, like his eyelids can squeeze the answer out of him. “Well, what have those smarts gotten you, huh?”

Solas blinks. He pushes his considerable pile of winnings into Varric’s view.

The dwarf gives them a sour look. “Alright, alright,” he says, slapping his hand down. “I fold.”

“Bok-bok,” says Blackwall. “Seems the chicken coop’s gained another resident.”

Varric makes an offended noise, but can’t wipe the grin from his face. “Anyone hear that? Sounds like the pained groaning of wounded pride.”

“I’m in quite good health, actually, Master Tethras.” Solas takes another peek at his cards, folded and faced down in his hand - he remembers them, of course, but it could do well to signpost some uncertainty.

He’s in terribly poor health, in fact, as far as the game goes. A three and a seven. Nothing on the board.

“Well,” says Varric. “It’s down to Lavellan now.”

As one, the three men turn eyes on her. She’s got her cards - all two of them - fanned in her hand. It takes her a moment to notice the new attention.

“Oh,” she says. “Is it my turn?”

“Almost.” Solas plucks a small bet from his winnings and drops it in the pot. “Raise.”

_Lavellan._

Truth be told, he hasn’t discerned any pattern to her behavior. She raises when her hand is low - sometimes. Calls when it is high - _sometimes_. He has yet to see her fold - she always plays a hand to the end. He’d be inclined to dismiss her as inexperienced, unable to tell a good draw from a bad one, but…

Well, he _knows_ Lavellan now. Knows how she plays. How she pretends to her ignorance, to quiet suspicion and fear. He is not one to be fooled twice.

She looks at her hand. At the table. At Varric, then Blackwall. Her own winnings are meager, but she slides them all in. “Raaaaise,” she says, drawing the word out. She’s parroting him.

No. She’s _goading_ him.

Of course. She’s meeting him measure for measure. Backing down would reveal her hand. She knows this. Is she toying with him? Is her hand strong enough to manage that? Or so poor that reckless confidence is the only way she can sell it? Perhaps she’s not motivated by victory at all, and simply wants to needle him. He’s not certain.

That puts more of a thrill in him than anything. _He’s not certain._

And the only way to find out is -

“Call.” He drops the needed bet in the pot, straightening in his seat. “I believe that’s the end of the round.”

“Sure is.” Varric’s got one elbow on the back of his chair, now. “C’mon, Chuckles. Put the poor girl out of her misery.”

The thought puts a smirk on his face. He lays his cards out, and flips them over. Seven. Three.

Varric’s pained hiss is immediate. “Trash hand.”

“Told you.” Blackwall mutters. “He’s got a mask that’d make an Orlesian jealous.”

Again, all three pairs of eyes swing to Lavellan.

The look she’s giving Solas’ cards is blank, like there’s still any reason to hide. She places her cards down. She flips them over.

Seven.

Three.

“Did I win?” Lavellan asks.

Blackwall dives into laughter beside him.

Varric’s smile is a little stretched, a little disbelieving. “Uh, Inquisitor - “

“That’s tie.” Solas reaches across the table, dividing the pot into two. “Split pot.”

“So I didn’t win.” 

He pushes her half of the pot - which easily dwarfs what she already had - over to her side of the table. Varric tsks as money trades hands. “You two kids. I think the Maker must have it in for both of you.”

“Victory is not waiting for a good hand, Master Tethras,” Solas says. “It’s learning to play a poor one.” He gathers up the cards on the table, folding them together, and across the table, meets Lavellan’s eye. 

She may be a woman of few tells, this Inquisitor. But he does not miss the flicker of a smile on her face.

* * *

It is late, when they end the game. Blackwall returns to his room in the stables, and the three of them walk to the main keep together.

Varric fills most of the conversation, saddled with two elves who are quiet at the best of times. He talks of the game, his favorite plays and worst hands. Solas only half-listens, too consumed with the chill biting in the air, and how it scatters against an easy, languid warmth in his chest.

It was a quiet night. Contented. He would even, if he were feeling daring, call it peaceful.

“Second best play,” Varric continues, “had to be that first round or so we played. You remember it, right?”

“Yeah,” Lavellan says, in a way that says she clearly does not. “Of course.”

“Hero had such a good hand, and he kept raising and raising, and then you - you pull that Royal Straight, out of nowhere.”

“Yeah,” she says again. They walk, boots cracking through packed snow. “Uh. What’s a Royal Straight?”

Solas stops walking. Varric stops walking. The Inquisitor does not.

“You know,” Varric said. “You got that hand with all the face cards. The King, the Queen, the Knave?”

“Right.” She says. Then, “what’s a Knave?”

Solas closes his eyes. Breathes in. Opens them again.

“Inquisitor,” he says, delicately. “Could you tell me the name of the game we just played?”

She sucks her lips in and looks at him. There is a long, brittle moment.

“Go Fish?” She says.

He closes his eyes again.

“Is that - “ Varric starts, huffs out a laugh, tries again “- is that why you kept asking if I had any Tens?”

“I thought humans just played with really weird rules,” she mutters to the ground.

“Andraste’s holy tits.” Varric resumes his pace again, shaking his head. In moments, the three of them are walking side-by-side once more. “You know, I wasn’t sure if you were faking so well or just didn’t give a shit, but a total newbie. Huh. Well.” He tosses her a sideways grin. “At least you helped end Chuckles’ reign of terror.”

“Not ended,” he says. “But I am content to share the crown.” 

“Next time,” Lavellan says, “we’re playing Go Fish. Dalish rules.”

“Next time,” Varric agrees.

Solas is quiet for several steps, unwilling to commit. Tonight was tolerable, certainly, but it is late, and he aches for isolation, for the Fade. 

He walks on Lavellan’s left, and as he looks at her, he sees her eyes travel up from the snow, to meet his. 

A smile pulls at her mouth, on the side only he can see. And she winks.

Something happens.

It happens between him lifting one foot from the ground and putting the other down. It happens in an instant, and then it’s gone, but the wake remains rippling through him. It feels like falling, and like landing. It feels like a lazy summer inside his chest.

“Yes,” he agrees, he cannot help but agree. “Next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Next update should be within a week." I'm a bad person and I tell bad lies.
> 
> I'm going to mark this fic as complete. There is an off-chance I'll continue adding to it, but it's very small, and I don't want to get anyone's hopes up (again.) Maybe as DA4 creeps out I'll get some new inspiration for it.


End file.
